Frosty Funk's Open Salon Blog

Starbuck Dreamers

Sun, 29 Jul 2012 23:07:41 -0400

He knew right then, when he saw her enter the store, his life had just changed. He knew it was her before he could say he knew. Something in the room was different. She was the only woman he had ever met who could do that, simply walk into a room and change the dynamics around her and he'd had nearly forty years to find one. Something electric. It didn't spark a mental connection at first, but whatever it was about this woman riveted his attention.

Later, thinking back on it, he guessed it was her walk that first caught his eye in the store. He was at his usual table sipping coffee and working on a story when the door opened, as it had at least a dozen times since he'd arrived that morning. He always glanced up, breaking his concentration for a moment to see who was coming in or leaving. At first these constant interruptions irritated him enough to almost dissuade him from writing there. It was the free WiFi and the casual atmosphere that kept drawing him back until eventually he accepted the place as his studio. He'd gotten to know the baristas - a couple of them followed his work on the Internet site where he posted his stories. Sometimes he mentioned the store in a story and sometimes he wrote about one of the baristas or a customer. He'd become their writer in residence, “Old Beard,” as one middle-aged regular called him. Finally, because his concentration demanded so much from him when he applied it and because he continually needed little rests, sometimes after a single phrase or sentence, he knew these interruptions were no worse than any of the others he found wherever he wrote.

So, naturally he glanced up when she came in, moving with a feline grace so unique in his mind it took his breath. Her first steps were tentative as her eyes swept the room, adjusting to the subdued light. It was when she fixed them on him he knew. The black diamond gleam in her eyes she could switch at whim from scorching censure to thrilling merriment and back. He knew then and felt like shouting when the walk became confident and she came straight to his table. She'd put on weight, not much, enough to notice. Shoulders, upper arms and a modest swell of belly, but she carried it well. She'd been almost too thin before. He'd found that irresistible too. He knew it was her. Her face revealed a vague puzzlement, but he knew she recognized him.

"Hello, Anthony” she said, her voice faltering slightly on his name, as it always had, as if she weren't completely certain how to pronounce it or if using it would somehow offend.. The voice was not different. Unassuming, almost timid but with intermittent decibel spurts as if suppressing a passion that threatened to erupt without warning – and which had, on occasion long ago, to match eyes flashing with judicious, unrelenting anger. She'd stared straight at him as she approached his table, walking right up to him until the edge of her summer dress brushed his shoulder and he smelled her, a faint unfamiliar perfume that teased through the softer, warmer odors of a woman whose bed he'd shared at a youthful time when anything seemed possible.

He'd followed her with his eyes as she drew near, and now was looking up into hers, his jaw hanging open, face dumb with disbelief. “Grace?” he blurted and with a start tried to rise, but she placed a hand on his shoulder and patted it several times.

“Don't get up, Anthony. How are you, my dandelion head?” She moved her hand to what was left of his now longish hair, giving it a playful ruffle.

“Grace,” he said, this time making it a statement. His face was stretched in a smile of wonderment. “Sit down! My god! Grace! What on Earth are you doing here?” He stood now, before she could stop him, and wrapped her in an embrace, rocking the two of them back and forth gently. He reached up and stroked her hair, smelling of shampoo and still dark brown but obviously dyed. He kissed her on a cheek. Her skin surprised and delighted him, smooth and supple as he remembered. She'd hugged him back, but now he sensed her body tensing and he released her and guided her to the chair across from his. He helped her take her seat and returned to his, reaching to close his laptop as he sat. She stretched out a hand.

“No! Don't close it. I want to see what you're writing.” She was smiling. Her eyes, fixed on his, sparkled and danced the way he remembered.

“Nothing really. I was working on a poem, but it wasn't coming to me,” he said, turning the laptop so she could see the screen. She immediately broke out in the unrestrained cackling laugh that had convinced him he loved her. He laughed now in recognition of what she was seeing and also in joyful remembrance of that first laugh of hers he'd won from her way back.

“Shame on you,” she said and turned the computer back to him. This time he did pull the top down, putting to sleep the partially played solitaire hand that filled the screen.

He smiled sheepishly. “I play solitaire while I'm working something out in my head. I probly play a hundred or so hands a day while I'm working. I can rest my mind or work out a problem while I'm keeping my hands busy. It's all automa...”

“Anthony,” she interrupted softly, “I know you. Remember?”

Jeezuz, Grace, it's good to see you. How...I mean how are you? You look wonderful!”

“You don't look so bad yourself, Anthony.”

“Oh, bullshit. I'm an old wreck. But you...just look at you!”

“You always had a way with words, Anthony.”

“But how are you?”

Her face grew serious. “You started to ask me something else. You said 'how' and then you changed your mind and asked me how I was. I'm OK, Anthony. What did you want to ask me first?”

“Jeezuz, Grace. You always saw right through me. I knew you were fine, Grace. I can see you are fine. Fine as ever. Like a fine wine...”

“Anthony.”

“I just wondered how you found me and what brings you here now. You caught me by surprise, Grace. Completely by surprise. I feel like we're in a Dan Fogelberg song.”

“I'm stalking you.” She delivered this deadpan, a trick of hers that always made him laugh. This time he only smiled, expectantly. She added, “I'm a fan. I read your poems and your stories. I follow you on Facebook.”

She looked up then, but not at him, and he followed her gaze and saw one of the baristas standing at their table. He introduced his guest and ordered another black coffee. She ordered a cappuccino. The barista returned with the steaming drinks and an exotic-looking pastry for each of them. “On the house, Tony. Your friend is beautiful,” the barista offered her a shy smile. She smiled politely and murmured a thank you, but as the barista walked away she made a face at the dessert, explaining she was on a diet.

“This is a special occasion, Grace. It's your punishment for stalking me. OK, so are you a hacker now? How can you follow me on Facebook? We're not friends.” He chuckled at the irony.

“Don't you remember friending a RubyT?”

“RubyT?”

“RubyT. That's me. I was afraid you might not accept me. You did, though. You don't remember?”

“I hardly ever turn down a friend invitation, Grace. No offense. I'm trying to sell my books. You never post anything or comment.”

“I hardly ever post. I don't really like Facebook. I don't even have an avatar.”

“So...”

“I go on there just to see you, Anthony. That's how I found where you post your poems and your stories. You're pretty good, you know.”

“I can't think of anything to say. I'm feeling verklempt.” This brought another burst of cackling. It wasn't as strong and didn't last as long as the first.

“Anthony.” She reached across and touched his nearest hand, reminding him of how long and graceful were her arms and her fingers. He was startled to see she wore no wedding band. When he looked up he saw that she'd seen him looking.

“He died last year. I'm a widow. I'm too young to be a widow.” She smiled and laughed, this time gently, a little sadly. She patted his hand and pulled hers back.

“I'm sorry, Grace. You know, I didn't even know you were married. I mean, I knew you and Fred were divorced, but that was years ago. Years and years ago. We lost touch with each other after that.”

They let that sit awhile as they sipped their coffees. He nibbled on his pastry. She hadn't touched hers.

She broke the silence. “You're not happy, are you, Anthony.” It wasn't a question, and she lowered her eyes after speaking.

“I'm happy now. Very happy,” he said, forcing a smile.

“I've read your poems. Your lovely sad poems. And I read what you said in the comment on Facebook about selling your house and getting a divorce. I'm so sorry, Anthony.”

He shrugged and nodded compliantly. “Yeah.” He chuckled without mirth. “Yeah. We're going our separate ways.”

“What if you can't sell the house?”

“What?”

“Anthony, the market's terrible. Your house is worth so much more than you can get for it. You're under water. What if you sell it but you can't get back what you still owe? What will you do?”

“Grace, how in hell do you know all this? I haven't written about this on Facebook or anywhere else?”

“Anthony, I just came from your house. The agent took me through it. I met your wife. She seems very nice.”

“What the fuck? What are you telling me, Grace?” His voice rose to a level that brought several heads swiveling to face their table. He pushed his chair back. Their barista was staring.

“Anthony!” Her voice was firm, the eyes now hard as anthracite. She repeated his name, more gently this time. He remained seated but was squinting at her in confusion.

“Anthony, I want to buy your house. I want to pay you what it's worth.”

He stared, face frozen. His breathing had become heavy and uneven. She continued, “Earl made a lot of money on the stock market. He left me a very wealthy woman. I want to buy your house and give it to you.”

Stunned, he took several deep breaths and leaned against the back of his chair, still staring at her uncomprehendingly. Other than signaling the barista for two more coffees, he sat motionless.

“Grace, for krisesakes why would you do that? We had a fling nearly forty years ago. We went our separate ways, lived separate lives. We're too old – at least I am – to get any kind of a flame going again. You must realize that...”

“Stop it, Anthony. Listen. Do you still love me?”

“Grace!”

“Answer me, Anthony.”

“Grace, jeezuz. God dammit, Grace. I've never loved anyone else. Never. Not like I loved you.”

“Loved? No more?”

“Oh, jeezuz, Grace. I've never stopped loving you. I can never stop loving you. I'll go to my grave loving you.” He let out a gush of air and sagged in his chair. She reached across the table and took both of his hands and squeezed them. He fought back tears. Her eyes glistened now, too. She squeezed again and let go.

“Anthony, I'm going to buy your house. You can't stop me. And we're going to live there together.”

“Don't, Grace! Please don't!”

“You just said you still love me. Isn't it clear to you that I love you, too, you dummy?”

“Why that house, Grace? Why can't we live somewhere else?”

“I want to live with you in that house, Anthony. It's where you wrote your books. It's where you love to walk and find the wildflowers. You love that house. I want to be there with you.”

The coffee came. He sipped, peering through the steam, breathing deeply, feeling more conflicted than he could remember ever feeling before.

“I can't do that to Theresa. She loves the house more than I do. If we have to lose the house we both should lose it. I can't take it from her. I just can't do that.”

“She doesn't love you.”

“I know.”

“She'd take the house from you if she could.”

“Probly. She's cold. A material girl ha ha.”

“Then do it to her, Anthony. You can do it her. We can do it to her. She deserves it after what she's done to you.”

“I can't hurt her like that.”

“You don't love her.”

“Not the way I love you. But I've been with her a long time. People grow on each other. There are things about her I find dear. I don't want to hurt that part of her even knowing what she did and knowing I can never trust her. But it would crush her if we did this to her. I can't be that cruel.

“Let's just go somewhere else. Disappear. Leave this all behind.”

“That wouldn't solve anything. You would worry about her, leaving her stuck with the debt. You would worry, Anthony. You're a worry wart. You were always a worry wart.”

“I know.”

“You should think more of yourself. You did the best you could but it wasn't enough for her. She didn't appreciate what she had. She took advantage of you. She needs some payback. Let me buy the house for us. Let her keep all the money. That's all she really wants. She'll be in heaven. We'll be together. You deserve a little heaven, too, Anthony.”

He sipped his coffee and stared at the laptop. Something touched his foot, above the shoe. She'd apparently kicked hers off and was rubbing his ankle with her toes. He glanced up and saw her looking at him, intensely. Mischief played in her eyes. She leaned forward and whispered something. He couldn't quite make it out. He leaned toward her until their noses were inches from each other. Her tongue darted out and moistened her lips. She whispered again.

“Wanna fuck?”

“Jeezuz, Grace,” he said. Where were we the last time you said that to me? Was it at...”

“Shut up, Anthony. Let's get out of here. If we're going to say goodbye we might as well have some fun while we're at it.”

They stood. She pulled a twenty out of her small handbag, dropped it on the table and turned toward the door. Her companion grabbed his laptop, shot a salute at the barista and followed.

Conjured love

Fri, 18 May 2012 11:05:23 -0400

Love heals.

Lovers know this from the start,

Yet they may not know with certainty

What love is.

Not that it matters especially

When they find the magic within the power

Of unfolding lust,

Of redemption,

Of unmitigated joy.

There's a mutual recognition

In the eye to eye surrendering

To trust,

To promise,

To the unimaginable other.

And when all is gone its memory remains

To wield the rage,

Reminding the heart

What love is.

Sole survivor

Thu, 17 May 2012 11:05:27 -0400

His ego bereft of consistency

Betrays a heart hungering for soul,

Unable to trust his will

Or harbor imaginary gods,

He finds relief melding into a role whose proven viability

Can give convincing cover

To buy him time to fabricate

An identity that seems to him unique,

Yet not so much so

As to strand him in the universe

Bereft of soulful company.

Cloudstopper

Tue, 20 Mar 2012 13:03:45 -0400

It started one evening, she was home all alone,

Adrift in the hot tub with a drink and her phone.

She wanted to party so she called a few friends

But nobody answered; she was now at loose ends.

So she fired a doobie and took her a hit,

Which lightened her mood and she giggled a bit.

She was Clementine Cropper and didn't you know

She's the one you remember when there's talk of the blow.

This evening alone in her tub she looked up

And saw the clouds moving without interrupt.

Quite high from her doobie she stared at the sky

Her mind now adrift as she watched the clouds fly.

They slid and they scudded across the deep blue

And some became angels with wings the wind blew.

She was Clementine Cropper and didn't you know

She's the one you remember when you think of the blow.

The angels smiled at her and and she felt a thrill;

It made her feel special but it gave her a chill.

She smiled back at the angels and begged them to stay,

For she feared what would happen if they went away.

She silently prayed and she pleaded until

The clouds all stopped moving and the angels stood still.

She was Clementine Cropper and didn't you know

She's the woman you think of when remembering the blow.

She told all her friends what had happened that day;

They grinned and they nodded but had nothing to say.

But Clementine knew what she'd done was for real;

She practiced and practiced and she prayed a great deal.

She'd make the clouds stop with her friends standing by;

They'd pretend not to notice, wouldn't look at the sky.

She was Clementine Cropper and didn't you know

She's the one who got lost on the day of the blow.

The day that the blow came it started out warm,

But it hinted of weather that might bring a storm.

Well, sure enough along came a front rolling in

With black clouds and lightning and a thunderous din.

Now Clementine watched this from her favorite tub,

As she soaked in hot water and her skin gave a scrub.

She was Clementine Cropper and didn't you know

She's the woman we speak of from the day of the blow.

Well, Clementine studied the clouds overhead

As they swirled, flashed and grumbled she was looking instead

For her angels 'til she found one, then she willed it to stop,

It was dark and looked angry and it started to drop.

It came closer, growing larger and its mouth opened wide

And Clementine's tub went a'sailing inside.

She was Clementine Cropper and didn't you know

She's the woman who vanished on the day of the blow.

The woman's choice?

Mon, 19 Mar 2012 08:03:30 -0400

It starts on the Fallopian Speedway:

To finish first a matter of life

When wiring that gains the winner's flag

Flaunts its triumphant attributes

On the victory lap.

Wait, there's more,

Perhaps.

Does the host participate?

Do her linkages search beyond mere pace

Or strength or seminal cunning

Or any narcissistic edge

As sperm duels sperm?

Mayhap her secretions ministrate,

Slicking one o'er the other

In their frantic dash to a new being,

And the final arbiter's she?

Then it all comes down to chemistry,

Congruence of fluid with membrane, genetic winks.

Is this where life begins?

If so, it's here comes the primal taste, the commingled musk:

Conjoined designs, connubial mesh where spark appears

And anoints.